Dangerous Woman
by Atiaran
Summary: Audio diaries detailing Ryan's perception of Sophia Lamb in the days before the Rapture Civil War.
1. Ryan: First Debate

**Standard disclaimer:** None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of 2K Games and / or Irrational Games. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author's note:** Just a little something that popped into my head and wouldn't go away. Really, I can't think of enough good things to say about BioShock and BioShock 2. BioShock 2 in particular just blew me away. It's the rare sequel that doesn't feel like a simple retread of the original, but instead improves and expands on it, deepening and enriching it not just in terms of narrative and world-building, but philosophically as well. Is BioShock 2 the best game of the year? Well, the year's not over yet, and already there's been some pretty stiff competition (Mass Effect 2, I'm looking in your direction), with possibly more to come (Fallout: New Vegas, I'm looking in your direction), but they'll have to go a long distance to beat the latest offering from the guys at 2K.

I think the pairing of Lamb and Ryan has utterly fascinating possibilities, and I'd love to see some deep, extensive fic done for the two of them, which is part of the reason why I wrote this. Unfortunately, I don't feel that I have the philosophical background to really pull the two of them off (which is why this fic is so short), but consider this the best I can do at this time.

In this fic, I've tweaked Ryan's backstory—I have him having done some time in the Gulag camp of Kolyma. Unfortunately, the camp at Kolyma wasn't established till the 1930s (I think 1932,) whereas Ryan escaped the Soviet Union in 1919. I hadn't remembered Ryan got out so early until after I had finished the fic, at which time I checked his backstory on the BioShock wiki. However, given that the world of Rapture is already an alternate universe to our own, perhaps the gulag system got going much earlier in that universe than in our own.

* * *

_[click]_

_[Sigh]_ This Lamb woman is … infuriating. Infuriating. We had our first public debate today in Apollo Square, at the urging of Bill McDonagh. He claimed that engaging her, philosophy to philosophy, in a public setting, would "defang" her, and it seemed … logical enough, I suppose, so I went along with it. I … am afraid I did not come off well. She baited me, and … I lost my temper, I fear. Grew incoherent, angry, could barely speak, let alone lay out my case with anything like the necessary precision. And yet, why should I have to? Everyone in that crowd was familiar with my reasoning, or should have been; it was that reasoning that drew them to Rapture in the first place. What did they expect, in coming here? I never promised them a kingdom, I only promised them a _chance,_ and they knew it. I am not responsible for their self-delusions. And yet … to hear the way they cheered her on… _[Tch] _

I must admit, there is something … admirable about the woman, about the strength of her convictions, despicable though they may be. In some ways there seems almost to be a similarity between the two of us: her philosophy, like my own, rose like the phoenix from the smoldering embers of Hiroshima, the knowledge of mankind's terrible capacity for self-destruction. "Were the modern world a patient in my care," she told me once, when she first arrived here, "I would diagnose it as suicidal." And I … I sense in her an iron strength of will, of purpose, that seems very much akin to my own, if I may say so myself. Strange that two individuals as … alike … as we are should have come to follow such diametrically opposing philosophies. Of course, she did not have my experiences. She—_she_ was living in ease and comfort at Oxford while I froze and starved behind the barbed wire at Kolyma, a victim of the very principles, the … _altruism_ … which she espouses. I, _I _ know where such principles lead. She, apparently, does not. Or perhaps she thinks she can avoid them, the camps, the firing squads. Is that it? Has she fallen for the old lie that this time will be different?

She was so cool, so controlled, during the debate—her eyes, clear and calm, her words measured and even, never raising her voice by so much as a whisker, while it was all I could do to keep from shouting her down. I was so angry I was practically tongue-tied with emotion, as inarticulate as a schoolboy—I cannot have left a very good impression. Our next debate is in a week's time. The thought of facing her again is…unsettling, somehow. I must do better. I _must._ If I can show that she is wrong … if I can get her—_them—_to _see _… then who knows what might happen. Who knows…..

_[/click]_


	2. Ryan: Second Debate

_[click]_

We had our second debate today. It went no better than the first, I fear. She, controlled and calm. I, growing angry, _choked_ with anger, really, to the point where I could scarcely speak. The crowd—on _her_ side, as they had been last time. Cheering her on. Fickle. Treacherous. Perhaps I should take steps….

I saw her in the green room, beforehand. I commented on her choice of attire—a blue dress which did, in truth, flatter her. I told her that I was surprised to see her in blue, that I thought something in crimson would have been more appropriate. She, as collected as ever, replied that she wore it for my benefit—that it was well known to psychologists that cool shades such as blue had a soothing effect, and that after our last debate, it was clear I needed the assistance. Damnable woman. She's a trained psychologist, she _must_ know that Bolshevism is nothing more than nonsense. Hogwash. Claptrap. Mankind has never, and will never, struggle and sacrifice for any other interest but its own. I saw first-hand, in the camps, just how predisposed to altruism humans are. Gaunt stick-figures, fighting each other savagely over the smallest crumb of bread, or scrap of clothing. I told her as much—I asked her, honestly, as an intelligent woman, how could she possibly believe in something that went so against human nature. How could she work to bring about something she knew could never exist? She replied that it was necessary to build the Utopian self before there could ever be a Utopia, and that _that_ was her calling, the direction of her labor: to use the tools of her art to usher in the Utopian self, the Soviet _novus homo, _perhaps (my phrase, not hers). "Utopia," she told me, in that smooth and measured voice, "will exist the moment we are fit to occupy it."

It is as I suspected. She wishes to tinker with mankind, to remake human nature. To make people … better. And I do not hold to that. To alter humanity, to do away with the self—monstrous. Abomination. I cannot think of any principles more loathsome, more repellent to me. And yet, there she stood, explaining it to me as if it were the simplest thing in the world. She is brilliant—educated, sophisticated—how could a woman such as she actually believe that…. _[sigh]_ I should never have brought her to Rapture.

_[/click]_


	3. Ryan: Contemplation

_[click]_

Diane has called me to come to bed, yet I find that I cannot sleep. Too unsettled, perhaps, in body and mind. A glass or two of Red Ribbon brandy should have a salutary effect, I hope.

As I sit here, late at night, in the heart of my city, sipping my brandy and watching the schools of fish swim past outside, I find my thoughts turn again to that Lamb woman. Perhaps it is the brandy, but I cannot help but admit that there is something…compelling about her. Erudite, eloquent…all the things Diane is not. I must say that during our debates, I have come, grudgingly, to respect her more and more. She is…a formidable woman. A forceful, worthy opponent. In truth, I have come to find our exchanges stimulating, almost…exhilarating. If only she could be brought to harness her talents in support of a more worthy cause….she could….

I constructed Rapture to be the city of possibilities, but it…seems that all things are not possible after all. Strange that it should be easier to build a city at the bottom of the ocean than to change one human mind. If...if only…things were different, then perhaps…perhaps…

_[sigh]_

_[/click]_


	4. Ryan: Dangerous Woman

_[click]_

I went to Pauper's Drop today, I cannot say why. She was there, as I knew she would be, standing on a crate and speaking to a crowd of perhaps a hundred, all of them rapt on her every word. I joined them, pushing to get close enough to make out what she was saying, hearing her smooth, measured tones rising and falling in educated cadences. I was recognized, of course; the crowd muttered and mumbled in resentment, but dared do no more than that. I ignored it. Parasites, all of them.

She spotted me in the crowd, and broke off, motioning to another to take over. She stepped down from the box and came toward me as he began to speak, the crowd parting for her like the ocean. When she reached me, she inquired what I was doing there. I did not know what to respond. I began to harangue her, I am sorry to say, demanding again that she tell me how she could support such beliefs in the heart of Rapture. She said that this was not the appropriate venue for such discussions, and suggested that we adjourn to her office. I asked her, snidely, if she intended to charge me for her time—I was trying to get a reaction, I suppose. To shake that invulnerable calm. A crude attempt…unworthy of me, and, perhaps, of her. At any rate, it did not succeed; she replied with a simple "no," that she was asking me as a colleague and associate, not as a patient.

I followed her to her office. I don't know why. It was large and spacious, furnished in dark wood and leather, with walls of books….even a fireplace. I asked her, again snidely, if she intended me to lie on the couch, but she directed me to take a place in an armchair; she sat in another chair opposite me, with a bottle of brandy between us. She offered me a drink; I accepted, though she did not partake herself. I don't recall how the conversation began; probably I simply picked up where I had left off, pressing her to account for her support for such vile ideas. My voice grew louder and louder, while she simply listened, lacing her fingers together and refilling my glass from time to time. I told her that I knew where policies such as hers ended up, I had seen the colossal damage they did, and she nodded. She told me that she had heard I had been imprisoned in Kolyma.

I was astounded. My imprisonment is not something I care to discuss; I would not wager that there are one in a thousand people in Rapture who are aware of it. I asked her how she knew, but she did not answer; instead she simply invited me to talk about my experiences, and to tell her how they had informed my attitudes toward her ideals. I demurred at first but after a time…. Most likely it was the brandy she poured for me in liberal quantities loosening my tongue, for I found myself speaking about Kolyma. The White Death. Things I had told no one else, not even Diane ... I heard myself going on and on, while she listened quietly and the fire crackled, casting its warmth and light over the room, and somehow, I don't know how, we … she ….

When….when it was over, she ... sent me on my way. I—I am ashamed to say, I would have stayed. I _wanted _to stay, but she—she _dismissed_ me, gentle yet firm, as if she were speaking to a child, or one too feeble to understand. She simply turned me out, onto the streets, as if I were no more than a…..a….

She is a dangerous woman. This was a terrible mistake, and one that could cost me much, perhaps everything. All she has to do is speak up, and she could doom me, as her ideals will doom the city. Something must be done. I will see to it. Speak to Sullivan, tell him to begin building a case….She must be silenced. For the good of us all. For the good of us all….

_[heavy sigh]_

_[/click]_


	5. Lamb: To Eleanor

_[click]_

This recording will be the first in a series addressed to my unborn daughter. I make these diaries for you, Eleanor, so that if something happens to separate us, you will have these records to guide you: to tell you who you are, where you came from, and what your destiny is to be.

Eleanor, child, you are special. Never doubt that. You are destined to be a new kind of human being, one who will devote her every waking moment to the common good—the good of the people. It is for you to model for the world a perfect life: one of total selflessness in service of all humanity. You, Eleanor, will lead the commonweal into their brave new world. For you, my daughter, are to be the first true Utopian. You are my gift, to all mankind—and to one man in particular, as well.

Your father, Andrew Ryan, brought forth Rapture under the ocean's surface, intending it to be mankind's salvation. It was his highest dream. And you, born of Rapture, are that salvation—that dream—made flesh. Honor your father and your mother, child: bring Utopia into existence, and so doing, fulfill your destiny. This, Eleanor, is my desire for you.

_[/click]_

_Finis._


End file.
